Backlash Read online

  The FBI began to suspect the bomber was a loner. He (although the actual gender of the individual was not a certainty to them, it was unlikely to be a female, according to the behavioural psychologists) was, they deduced, either not affiliated to any particular group or was operating independently on the periphery of several. He was classified as a New Offender Model Terrorist, acting out his deadly rages and frustrations in total anonymity . . . and outwitting the FBI at the same time.

  The twentieth bomb exploded in Miami. Another gay bar. The eighth such target chosen by the bomber.

  It was a huge, devastating explosion, completely and utterly destroying the inside of the bar in the Coral Gables area of the city. It blasted out the massive plate-glass window at the front of the premises, sending horrific shards of glass scything out across the sidewalk drinking area. Five people were blown to smithereens, many more injured, including numerous passers-by who were both white, male and heterosexual.

  An FBI team from the Miami Field Office were at the scene within ten minutes, under the supervision of the Special Agent in Charge. They took control of the carnage, usurping, bawling out and chivvying the local cops and, as per textbook procedure, establishing a suitable rendezvous point (RVP) through which all approaches to the scene had to be channelled.

  The SAC had made an excellent choice for the RVP – a small parking lot about a quarter of a mile distant from the scene of the bombing, some six blocks away and out of sight of it. The SAC brought in a mobile-communications truck, staffed with highly trained operatives who looked after all the phones, radios and agent deployments. The SAC seated himself in the cramped office at one end of the unit and directed operations from there. He had visited the scene briefly, but had come away quickly so as not to get involved, leaving his assistant in charge, while retaining overall strategic command and control from the truck, well removed from the hysteria and emotion. The chain of command had therefore been set up.

  This was the first time the Feds had been able to react so swiftly with a full team and a well thought out approach. There had to be the chance of a good result because of it.

  Unfortunately, people who bomb other people are unpredictable, usually smart, always devious and, of course, very dangerous. The bomber had decided to up stakes with this bombing and the FBI, despite their preparations, were not ready for the change in modus operandi. The bomber knew what procedures the FBI would adopt at the scene, in particular that an RVP would be established some way away. After reconnoitring the whole neighbourhood several times over a period of days before he planted the device in the bar, the bomber had concluded that the only place the RVP could realistically be set up was in the parking lot. It had the necessary elements needed: space and control of the main routes to and from the scene.

  The secondary device was much larger and more powerful than the one he had used in the bar. It had been placed and taped to the underside of a storm-drain cover in the parking lot and – beautifully and coincidentally – the mobile communication truck was parked slap-bang over it. The bomber waited several hours before detonating the bomb, at a time when the RVP was at its most hectic with milling FBI personnel.

  He was positioned on the high roof of an apartment building with an excellent view down to and across the lot. He had been there since the first bomb exploded, waiting patiently and happily, watching the emergency services hurtling by. He had observed, with a wry smile playing on his lips, the FBI commandeering the parking lot, as predicted, and driving the state of the art communications truck onto it and setting up shop. He remained cool and relaxed, holding back for the exact moment that would produce maximum impact.

  He picked up the remote control, his hands covered by thin latex gloves, pointed and thumbed the button.

  A classic.

  The blast almost blew him across the roof. He held on tight to the railings, keeping his eyes wide open, unwilling to miss one fraction of a second of the devastation he had caused.

  He had destroyed the communications truck, killed three agents and severely injured a dozen more. But, through one of those inexplicable freaks of fate, the SAC, who had been sitting in his temporary office in the truck, only a matter of feet from the epicentre of the blast, emerged shaken and shocked, his clothing having been torn from his body, but otherwise unscathed.

  It wasn’t long before a pair of keen agents were on the apartment rooftop looking down at the scene of tangled metal from which smoke still rose languidly in the hot night and from which two of the dead had yet to be cut free. They immediately radioed control that they believed they had found the point where the bomber had been sitting. They could not believe their good fortune. This was the closest anyone had ever knowingly been to the bomber. They were literally hot on his trail.

  Professionals that they were, the two agents approached the eyrie with extreme caution from the roof door. Their senses tingled with excitement and they took nothing for granted. Their weapons were drawn at the ready. They slid slowly across the flat roof, eyes never still, checking for booby-traps and trip wires, until they reached the edge of the roof. Here they found a folding stool of the sort used by anglers, a pair of binoculars on it and what looked like a TV remote-control unit discarded on the ground.

  The agents eyed each other.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Colin Brewster whispered hoarsely and unnecessarily. Booker nodded and tried to hide a disgruntled ‘Tch’ with a short cough; though he had far less experience than Brewster, he knew his job and resented the older man telling him what to do. Booker had a very tight feeling in his chest. This could be the breakthrough. This could be it – the bomber’s first mistake. Even if there were no fingerprints to be found here, the amount of information that could be gleaned from the three items they had found was phenomenal. There could be numerous lines of enquiry here. He squatted down onto his haunches, his knees cracking loudly, and squinted at the evidence.

  Brewster moved to the low wall with railings at the edge of the roof. He gazed pensively down on the scene of the bombing below. He had lost one very good friend down there. Arc lights illuminated the whole area as the time moved on towards midnight. Brewster’s forehead creased. He knew this was a terrific breakthrough, yet something was nagging – gnawing – at him.

  Booker said, ‘This could tell us a lot, pal.’

  ‘U-huh,’ agreed Brewster laconically.

  Both agents had their backs to the roof door.

  ‘The bastard’ll regret this,’ Booker growled, ‘leaving this gear.’

  The roof door opened a fraction.

  Brewster did not answer. His mind was still unsettled as he worked through this scenario. This bomber did not make mistakes, he thought. He does not leave clues or evidence. So why now?

  The roof door opened a little wider. The old rusted iron hinges did not squeak or groan as they should have done. They had been well oiled, lubricated and tested. They moved smoothly. Noiseless.

  ‘This is just fantastic,’ Booker gushed. He wasn’t really thinking straight.

  Brewster remained silent, brooding, not keying in to his partner’s enthusiasm. He folded a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed.

  ‘Somethin’ ain’t right,’ he said.

  Booker regarded him, puzzled.

  Now the door behind them opened wide enough to allow the barrel of a silenced pistol to peek through. The agents were fifteen feet away, muttering to each other. For someone as good as the bomber, the distance was no problem, even though it was some time since he had used a gun in anger. He was supremely confident in his abilities. But this was not the right moment to kill them. He wanted the agent who was standing by the edge of the roof – Brewster – to step back a few feet. He didn’t want the guy toppling over the edge and splatting down on the sidewalk.

  Their radios squawked.

  Booker, still bouncing on his haunches, answered and had a short conversation, confirming some detail or other. Brewster stayed by the edge of the roof.

&nbs
p; The bomber pushed the door open and stepped out behind the special agents. Brewster sensing something, turned quickly. Booker stood up and followed his colleague’s gaze.

  Then Booker smiled and Brewster’s shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Guys.’ The bomber nodded.

  ‘Hey.’ Booker beamed. ‘What the hell y’doin’ here?’

  Then Brewster became rigid again and the smile dropped from his face as the bomber revealed his gun.

  ‘Shit!’ Booker cried, raising his own weapon.

  He and Brewster were too slow. The bomber double-tapped both men with deadly efficiency, the untraceable slugs drilling their chests. He walked across and straddled each man in turn, putting another bullet into each of their heads, just to be on the safe side. Then, calmly, coolly, he picked up his three items – the remote control, the folding stool and the binoculars – and put them into a plastic carrier bag.

  Before leaving the scene he allowed himself one last look. The smile of satisfaction which came to his lips was pure evil. Now the time was right to offer his skills to the world.

  MONDAY

  One

  It was a tarantula, Henry was sure of it. Its long legs were creeping down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, across his chest, pausing at his right nipple to paw it, sending a shiver right through him. He hardly dared swallow, hardly dared breathe even . . . then the huge, but incredibly light, arachnid began to move slowly down his ribcage as though descending a ladder, down onto his stomach which he could not prevent from fluttering . . . surely it must bite, sink its fangs into his soft flesh, shoot its deadly poison into him. No. It moved towards his groin, across his pubic hair and suddenly, without warning, pounced, wrapping all its legs round his penis and squeezing tightly.

  ‘Jesus!’ Henry Christie crashed like a ramraider out of his vivid dream into wakefulness. His sweat-encased body leapt as though an electric shock had passed through it. His eyes flipped open. He looked sideways at the woman who had sneaked into his bedroom, undressed silently while he was asleep, then slid into bed alongside him and playfully grabbed his cock.

  She smiled wickedly at him.

  ‘You scared the hell out of me,’ Henry admitted. He flopped back, relieved he wasn’t going to be bitten by a . . . what was it? Even now, only seconds after waking, the dream was virtually gone into the mist, impossible to recall.

  Unlike the other dream.

  ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly five o’clock.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I need to get going.’ Henry made to rise, but the woman held him back firmly.

  ‘No way . . . you’ve got time . . . we’ve got time . . . if we make it quick.’

  ‘You said that at seven o’clock this morning . . . ahhh,’ he groaned throatily, unable to continue with his remonstration. Her skilful fingers had started to arouse him, drawing back his foreskin, making him catch his breath, squeezing the end of his damp, hardening penis.

  Henry lay back, submitting to the inevitable, happy to be dominated, relaxing into an almost comatose state, allowing her to do whatever she wanted, going along with it in spite of the time constraint.

  Afterwards, they lay entwined, savouring the ebb tide of a magnificent bout of sex.

  ‘Damn. Now I have to go,’ she murmured petulantly. Unwillingly she eased him out of her with a soft ‘plop’, draining the last ounce of pleasure from the encounter with her internal muscles. She rolled off him. ‘I open up in ten minutes and Monday’s usually busy – and I am well and truly exhausted.’ She planted a wet kiss on his cheek.

  Through droopy eyelids, Henry watched her scoot round and collect her clothes from the floor. She dashed out of the bedroom, pausing briefly by the door to blow him a kiss and wiggle her backside provocatively. The bathroom door slammed, then the sound of taps running and water pipes clanking resounded round the big flat.

  The digital clock said 5:14. Blink. Blink. Henry could not believe it was that time already. He yawned long and wide and almost left his skin behind when the alarm sounded unexpectedly. His groggy mind half remembered some upbeat, positive colleague of his referring to it as an ‘opportunity clock’. Henry thought, ‘My arse.’ To him it was purely and simply an alarm clock. A cold-blooded device designed by evil people to bring you into the real world as rudely as possible. The future held no opportunity for Henry, certainly not immediately, and the way he was feeling, not distantly either.

  He rubbed his eyes, making them squelch. He was sorely tempted to pull the quilt back over himself and say, ‘Fuck it, fuck ’em all.’ But he’d said those words too often in the recent past and was beginning to realise their futility.

  Henry rocked up into a sitting position, glancing round the darkened bedroom, spluttering derisively as he thought of his current situation. Here he was, for the second time in his life, living in the chilly, cavernous, rented flat on the first floor over a veterinary practice near the centre of Blackpool. As ever the constant whiff of animal scent and disinfectant wafted up from the ground floor. The difference was that there were a couple of changes that had not been part of the original equation when he had lived here before. Firstly, he was not just separated from his wife, he was lawfully, legally and painfully divorced from her. Secondly, he was sleeping with the lady vet who owned the practice.

  Henry marvelled at her stamina. The previous evening they had been out nightclubbing, then gone to a ‘bit of a gathering’ at her snotty friend’s house where the Bang and Olufsen hi-fi oozed cool jazz and the conversation dribbled bullshit – to Henry’s working-class ears, anyway. Then he and his veterinary ladyfriend – her name was Fiona – had taken a pre-dawn stroll before ending up in bed at the flat at seven that morning where they had made energetic love for another half-hour . . . animal sex, he had christened it . . . and after less than a couple of hours’ sleep she had opened the surgery at ten, worked through the day, operating on a series of unfortunate beasts, and had now indulged in further sex before reopening the surgery at 5.30 p.m. She had been on the go for twenty-four hours. Henry wondered if she was pumping any drugs into herself which should perhaps have gone into animals . . . but it wasn’t a serious thought.

  While she had been working all day, Henry had had the best part of ten hours solid, dreamless slumber – with the exception of the spidery dream which had wakened him. It had been the first time he had slept without having the recurring nightmare that haunted him.

  Maybe he had finally recovered.

  And now here he was, after almost two months of stress-related sick leave, about to return to work. This would be his first day back. The prospect filled him with abject terror: not only was he returning to work, he was starting a new role, one unfamiliar to him. This combination of factors was doing nothing for his brittle self-confidence, which was lurking somewhere below rock-bottom. He shivered, swore inwardly to exorcise the demons and went into the bathroom now vacated by Fiona.

  It was 5.25 p.m. He had to be at work by 5.45, ready for a twelve-hour night shift.

  Just to try and see himself as others might, Henry dressed in front of a full-length mirror. He started from scratch, looking at his stark, thin, unhealthy-looking body which had lost weight so quickly over the past months. Fortunately he was just beginning to regain some poundage. His ideal fighting weight, so he believed, was thirteen and a half stone, a weight he felt comfortable at. Not twelve, which, for the size of his broad frame, made him look and feel ridiculous. Meat pies were on the menu for a few weeks.

  After stepping into his Y-fronts – comfortable but not fashionable – he pulled his black, cotton-rich socks on. He batted his eyelids stupidly at his reflection and flexed his biceps a few times like a circus muscle-man – without the muscles. He reached for his trousers which were on a wire coat hanger. He eased his legs into them, gritting his teeth as the cheap, rough, sandpaper-like material scraped his skin. They were too generous round the waist, too short in the leg and sagged underneath the gro
in. He adjusted his privates in his underwear, but still felt very uncomfortable. He fed the black leather belt through the trouser loops and fastened it loosely.

  His white shirt was still in its packaging. He ripped it out of the plastic wrapper, carefully extracted the pins, eased out the cardboard collar stiffener and held the shirt up. It was criss-crossed with creases and should have been washed and ironed before today. His lips curled with annoyance at himself for not getting things ready earlier – a character trait which seemed to have crept up on him during his sickness. Procrastination was a way of life with him at the moment. There was no time to do anything about the shirt now, though. He was running late. He put the shirt on, forcing his hands through the cuffs without bothering to unfasten them. He tucked it into the waistband and yanked his belt tight.

  On the floor in front of him were his plain black shoes (as per regulations). As the exception to prove the rule, these were ready, cleaned and polished – bulled, actually, to mirror-like perfection. The act of spit-polishing them had become an obsession for him over the last week. He found the task relaxed him for some reason, gave him pleasure. He knew the shoes would be comfortable to wear. He put them on, tied the laces, and gazed proudly down at them.

  ‘God help any bugger that steps on these,’ he muttered out loud.

  He stood upright, fastened his top shirt button and clipped on his black tie. The first time he had worn such a thing for over a decade.

  Lastly, he affixed his epaulettes to his shoulders, the two shiny pips on each side reflecting the light.

  He gulped, closed his eyes, then opened them to take stock of the finished article: Henry Christie, uniformed police inspector, Blackpool Section, about to go on duty and perform the reactive cover function, dealing with the ‘here and now’ of policing . . . in the unwritten uniformed inspector hierarchy, the job usually given to newly promoted officers or those long in the tooth with no ambition or career advancement prospects.